Noche Buena

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

When I told people in Barcelona that we were going to Galicia for Christmas, they replied—to a person—“Galicia is beautiful, and the food is spectacular.  But it’s cold!”  They are right.  After a lazy morning of hanging around in our pajamas, we went for a late lunch across the street—croquettes, asparagus baked with cheese and jamon, mushrooms in shrimp sauce, and jamon with manchego—then to Castro Park, which provides an amazing view of the sea and has a terrific playground.  By the time we got there, the sun had begun to set and, even with gloves and a hat, I had to keep moving.  I suppose I’ve adapted a little too easily to Barcelona’s mild climate.

As for the food, where do I start?  Galicia is well-known for the quality and variety of its local seafood.  There are four kinds of lobsters, for example.  Lubina, a lovely white fish, starred in the feast.  Raquel and Mila left the house around noon to go to the Corte Ingles for the freshest fish and other provisions.  The apartment was already so full of food that the unheated laundry room had been converted into an extra cold room.  If you opened the door, you would trip over bowls of salad, bags of fruit, and lord knows what else.  Still, they asked us several times before leaving:  “Tell us now what else you want, because the stores will not be open until Monday!”  Two whole days!?!  We have enough provisions for 10 people for a week, easy.

Gena, another of Raquel’s six sisters, had arrived at the house by the time we returned from the park, and the three sisters were busy in the kitchen. The two lubinas were prepped for cooking, in a pan, covered in kosher salt (see below).  I do not know what “lubina” is in English, but it’s delicious.  One would never start Noche Buena (Christmas Eve) dinner before 9:30 pm; it’s simply not done.  Raquel was worried that we’d be done before the 10 o’clock news, and that would be scandalous.  Still, she did allow us to begin with appetizers at about 9 pm.  We started with fried calamari, served simply with lemon and salt, more cheeses from France, and from Spain, and—of course—jamon.  Then we moved to the table for thick slabs of fresh foie gras, apples sautéed in butter, and a lovely sauterne.  The lubina followed, so simple and so delicious, accompanied by roasted vegetables.  For dessert, a fresh fruit salad, and platters of turron,—xixona, Alicante, and yemado—figs stuffed with walnuts, marzipan, and polverones (powdery cookies made from almonds).  All of the Christmas pastries have almonds as their base.

We finally got the kids to bed around midnight, threatening that Santa passes by the  houses where the children are still awake.  And then Raquel, Mila, and Gena began to sing Galician folk songs, beautiful old melodies fuelled by nostalgia and wine.  They tried to explain the concept of morriña to us which, apparently, is the feeling these songs evoke.  From what I could tell, it’s something like homesickness.  In a strange coincidental twist, when I went to bed, I read a little, as I always do.  As it happens, one of the books I am currently reading is called Everything but the squeal: Eating the whole hog in northern Spain, by John Barlow.  I bought it because of my jamon obsession and, even though it’s set in northern Spain as opposed to the south, where Barcelona sits, I thought it would give me some insight.  I did not know when I ordered it that it takes place in Galicia.  And when I opened the book to the page where I had left off and started reading, I soon came to a passage about the exact same word—morriña.  Barlow defines it as “a feeling that is said to be stronger and more complex than mere homesickness; ‘home-yearning,’ perhaps, although many Galicians insist that there is simply no adequate translation of morriña.”

This is the first time in many years that Raquel and Myron have spent Christmas in Spain; they usually come in January, and we are usually with them at their house in Pawling on Christmas Eve.  Invariably, at some late hour, which means it is 6 hours later in Spain, the phone rings in Pawling and it’s Raquel’s sisters on the line, whooping it up.  Well, this year we are all together for the whooping, and at 2 am I finally said “uncle” and went to bed.  Apparently Gena and Mila were up talking in the kitchen until 5.  I think there are siestas in all of our futures.

Photos of the Day

Top: Castro Park; and bottom 3: the lubina before cooking, being served, and after

To Vigo

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

We have way too much stuff with us for a four day trip.  But it’s Christmas and, even though most of the gifts we are bringing are for our kids—which means they will come right back with us—we wanted them to be able to open them on Christmas Day.  We are planning a six week summer trip without a car, and I am already concerned about it because it seems impossible for us to travel light.

We are en route to Vigo, the city in Galicia where Alec’s Dad, Myron, and stepmother, Raquel, spend several months a year.  Alec’s brother Nick will be there, too, and at least some of Raquel’s many sisters.  Galicia is in the northwest of Spain, a beautiful part of the country that is famous for its amazing seafood.  Raquel grew up in nearby Santiago, a gorgeous city that is the third most visited city by Christian pilgrims.  Jerusalem and Rome are the first two.  It was summer last time we were there, and the streets were full of people with backpacks and walking sticks who had travelled great distances.

I feel fortunate to have family so close by, and to be able to spend the holiday with them.  Raquel is a fantastic cook, so we are sure to eat well.

This morning, I took the kids to say Happy Holidays and goodbye to Manuel, who spends the spring semester in Los Angeles.  We met earlier this week and made a minor breakthrough in my own work.  I have been reading and reading and reading, and holding myself back from cooking up a project prematurely.   But I think I’m on to something now, and I am excited to move in a new direction when I get back from our travels. 

On the way to my office we mailed the kids’ letter to Santa Claus.  They made a very long list—C.C. writing her own piece and Milo dictating his part to me.  I told them they couldn’t just send a list without convincing Santa that they had been good, so C.C. asked if I could help them write “a persuasive paragraph.”  I like that they still believe in Santa Claus.  We’ve watched the Grinch and The Year Without a Santa Claus this week.  I bought them on iTunes because I couldn’t imagine them growing up without knowing who the Heat Miser is.

When Myron picked us up at the airport he said, “Wow—you guys don’t have too much stuff this time!”  Which tells you something about our reputation.  Raquel’s sister, Mila, was there, along with her son Bolivar and his son Jorge, who is 5.  The kids started playing together immediately like kids do.  We ate salad, delicious jamon, cheeses and foie gras that Mila had brought from Paris, where she lives.  And turron, of course.  At some point in the evening, Myron left for awhile and returned with a box of gorgeous scallops (see photo below).  I’m not sure where he got them, but I’m looking forward to eating them.  We will not starve here.

Photos of the Day

The scallops, and C.C. and Milo with their cousin Jorge

Christmas Prep

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

I am turning into my mother.  When we were kids, waking our parents early and shooing them as best we could into the living room to open presents, it seemed like an eternity before we could start.  My Dad had to have his coffee.  We would bring the babka I had made into the living room so that there would be something to put in our stomachs during the endless unwrapping.  In our tradition, the youngest person had to fetch the presents from under the tree and deliver them to the correct recipients.  Invariably, Jody—the youngest—would come across gifts that had no tag, no name.  “Who does this go to?” she would ask the assembled.  My mother would furrow her brow and bite her lip, and then give it her best guess.  As often as not, she was wrong.  And then, after everything had been opened, she would study the piles of boxes and get that same thinking look on her face.  “Wait a minute,” she’d say and then dash off to another room, returning with a box or bag she had forgotten.   Sometimes she found things under beds or in closets in the middle of summer; Christmas could be a year-round holiday in our house.

Tonight, after a long day of running around the city doing last minute shopping and errands in the drizzle, I set myself up to wrap gifts on the living room floor.  If memory served, I had stashed most of the booty on the top shelf of my closet.  I stood on a chair, dug through my sweaters, and threw the loot I found down onto the bed. Many of the shops here in Barcelona wrap gifts, and as I took everything out and began to sort it into C.C. and Milo piles, I realized that I had not marked any of the wrapped gifts.  How could I have possibly thought I’d remember what was inside just by looking at the shape of the box?  I began peeling off tape and peeking inside, then having to repair the damaged wrap jobs.  And then, after I thought I had finished, I felt certain that I did not have everything.  So I began a hunt through closets and drawers, finding bags tucked here and there.  It all felt a little too familiar for comfort.

While I wrapped, I began to roll out another batch of cookies—I had made the dough yesterday and refrigerated it.   Cardamom orange sugar cookies.   I thought I’d give some out tomorrow, and bring the rest to Vigo.  They got great reviews, although several reviewers complained about the sticky dough.  Others shared strategies for dealing with it (roll it between two sheets of floured parchment paper).  I am a veteran baker and, if I do say so myself, I am particularly good with dough.  But this stuff was a nightmare.  I managed to roll and cut them, but when they baked, they spread out and puffed up like those fat graffiti letters from the 70s.  Not pretty enough to give away.  But delicious!  Given the late hour, and that there was no longer any urgency, I decided I couldn’t deal with the laborious process of rolling and cutting and baking.  So I stuck the rest of the dough in the freezer and took a bath.

Photos of the Day

Holiday window in Barcelona, and C.C.'s newly toothless smile

The Shortest Day

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

When I was growing up, my father always marked the winter solstice.  Only he didn’t call it the solstice and he certainly would not have said he was “marking” it.  He would sit at our kitchen table, a cup of milky-sweet coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other and say to my sisters and me, “Well, girls, the days are starting to get longer now.  Pretty soon we’ll be headed to the beach.”  Never mind that, at December’s end, we had barely tiptoed to the edge of winter in New Jersey; the worst was yet to come.  Never mind that a glorious fall day in November with exactly the same amount of daylight as a frigid, slushy one in February will win hands down every time.

When my acupuncturist, Ferran (yes, you read that right, but that’s another story for another day) sent out an invitation to a solstice talk and meditation he was leading, I decided to go.  What drew me?  I like ritual.  I think many of us, and particularly those of us who live in cities, have become disconnected from the earth.  And I like Ferran, so I wanted to see what he tricks he had up his sleeve.  First, I checked to make sure Alec didn’t have something else planned, and I asked if he’d like to join me.  He responded that he’d probably be better off not going himself.  I think he was afraid he might snicker during the festivities.

It rained all day—a cold, grey, constant drizzle—the kind of day that makes you want to get home at the end of the day and stay there.  But I did not feel even a twinge of my usual inertia, so I set off for downtown at about 7:45. When I arrived, people had started to gather in the yoga room of the acupuncture clinic.  Ferran—who is young and dynamic, a Catalan who studied acupuncture in the US—greeted everyone warmly as they entered.  I took a seat near the back.  Ferran poured himself some tea and started talking about how auspicious the solstice is, about the earth’s cycle and the opportunity it provides for us to look inside ourselves and make sure we are living the lives we want to live.  Who knows what the sun has to do with it, but it’s a message I sure need to hear every now and again.

Today’s solstice is supposed to be especially potent—for the first time in 372 years it coincides with a lunar eclipse; two cycles at the same time.  Because it’s the shortest day, the winter solstice is thought of as the rebirth of the sun, a time of movement from darkness into light.  As it did when I was a kid, the day has dual significance for me.  On the one hand, I am grateful for the turn that marks the gradual lengthening of the day; I love the long days of summer.  On the other hand, I revel in the cocooning that winter enables—taking hot baths, roasting root vegetables, braising meats, burrowing into flannel sheets.

Ferran had asked everyone to bring a small candle.  He put the lights out, we lit the candles, and everyone got quiet.  Whether you believe in this kind of hocus pocus or not, a room full of people thinking kind and peaceful thoughts can generate some powerful energy.  I’ve felt it in yoga classes, on meditation retreats, in places of worship.  In fact, it reminded me of the Christmas Eve candlelight services of my youth.  Once I was old enough, I often walked home from church alone on those nights, to hold on to large silence for a little while longer.

Photo of the Day

Turrones and Toes

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

If you sponsored a contest and asked all of the world’s cities to dress up in their holiday finest, I’m pretty sure Barcelona would win, at least if I had a say in the judging.  The lights are amazing—every main avenue is different, with row after row of colourful decorations strung from one side of the street to each other.  The branches of the trees along the Rambla are individually outlined in white lights.  The Gran Via has lights strung between the street lamps that look like colourful snowflakes, and the Rambla Catalunya has huge white snowflake-y circles. I will have to get out after dark to take some pictures, but in the meantime you will just have to trust me.

Like most places, Barcelona also has its own holiday food traditions.  One of them had me quite confused for awhile.  You may remember that I got hooked on orxata this fall, and I found two authentic places—El Tio Che on Rambla de Poblenou and Sirvent/Parlament on Balmes right near the Provenca FGC stop—that I passed often enough to pretty much guarantee myself a fix whenever I needed it.

Then one day, sometime last month, I headed out for a walk along the Rambla de Poblenou, intent on getting an orxata on the way, and El Tio Che was closed.  Now, finding businesses closed is an every day occurrence in Barcelona.  Many close for the afternoon siesta, but the siesta hours vary from business to business.  I figured that’s what had happened.  The next day, I found myself close enough to Sirvent to make a detour and satisfy my craving.  Also closed.  Within the same week I passed Sirvent a few other times, on different days and at different hours.  Still closed, and no sign outside explaining the situation.  I feared that it had closed for good.

I had given up hope when, one day last week, I noticed that the metal grating of Sirvent had been raised.  I rushed across the street only to find a handwritten sign on the door stating that the store closed from 11:45 – 1:30 every day.  I looked at my watch—noon.  I vowed to return the next day during opening hours and breathed a sigh of relief when I did, and the door yielded to my push.  I walked up to the counter and ordered an orxata—large, to go.  “No hay,” (There isn’t any) replied the counterwoman.  I looked around.  The tubs in the ice cream freezer had been replaced with marrons glaces, sugared almonds and pine nuts.  The counters were piled high with foil-wrapped bricks of chocolate and almonds, a sugary Fort Knox.  But everything else was the same.

“Will the orxata be back?” I asked, worried.

“Si, en abril,” she responded.  In April.  I counted on my fingers—four

It turns out that orxata is a warm weather drink.  Who knew? Even though it is not technically tied to the land as are other foods that are so much better when eaten in season, it has a time nonetheless.  I don’t really like having my access to orxata restricted, but I guess I can respect it.  And it seems that all of the orxaterias transform themselves into turronerias when the weather turns.

Turron is a class of sweets traditionally enjoyed during the holidays.  You can find turron during the rest of the year, just as you can find mass-produced orxata year round in the supermarket, but artisanal turrones are produced only in the winter.  And they are the best. Yesterday, our new friends Alex and Monica brought two kinds of turron from Sirvent to our house for dessert—they live only a couple of blocks away from the shop.  The “xixona” variety is my favorite—it’s like luxury crunchy almond butter, but sweeter and more dense.  It comes in a soft brick, and you slice it with a butter knife.  “Alicante” is harder and more brittle, and has larger chunks of almond inside.  You bang it with something hard to break off bite-sized pieces.  I prefer xixona, but honestly I like them both.

This morning I stopped off at Sirvent to pick up some turrones to bring to Myron and Raquel in Vigo for Christmas.  Then I walked to Via Laietana to meet Isabel, the foot analyst I met at the Barcelona Women’s Network morning coffee hour.  She had asked to practice on me.  I am trying to use my time here in Barcelona to be more open to new experiences, and I figured getting my feet analyzed definitely fit into that basket.  Isabel studies something called the Grinberg method, a form of alternative body work in which the practitioner “reads” the client’s feet.  If felt a little bit like palmistry, only more clinical and lower down.

The space in which Isabel practices is quiet and bright and looks out onto the awesome Music Palace.  After exchanging the usual pleasantries, she asked me to take off my socks and shoes and to hop up on the examining table.  I did, apologizing for the sorry state of my feet.  On a good day, my heels are cracked and dry, my toes calloused.  But it’s also been nearly two months since my last pedicure—no one should have to be touching my tootsies.  At least they were clean.

Isabel started with my right foot—my active foot, since I’m right handed.  She felt the callouses, explored the lines, furrowed her brow and started to ask me questions.  Some of them were right on:  “Are you quite tight in your hips?”  “Do you tend to be very driven and need to get things done?”  Others, less so:  “Do you lose your temper easily?”  Mostly, I thought her questions and ideas were quite accurate.  At the end of the reading, she worked on my feet and I felt deeply relaxed.  Maybe it just felt good to lie down.  Or maybe Grinberg, and Isabel, are on to something.

Photos of the Day

Sirvent's turrones, Isabel and my feet and (bottom) xixona (left) and alicante (right)

Cooking Frenzy!

Human Highlighter Suit Tally: 10

As Christmas approaches, the market stalls have begun to overflow with special ingredients and holiday treats.  And yesterday, it was jammed.  Everyone must be preparing to do their holiday baking and cooking.  The kiosk where we buy nuts, dried fruits, and spices is positively bursting with candied fruits, cocoa powder, and turrones. 

We had a lot to buy yesterday because we had invited two other families for Sunday lunch.  After shopping, we spent a few hours in the Parc Laberint—my favorite Barcelona park, which contains a real laberinth of 12 foot hedges—with Lisa, Jaume and their kids. 

Alec then cooked us a market dinner of unbelievably sweet little clams and gambas a la plancha (see photo below).  A woman standing next to Alec at the fish stall had tipped him off about the clams (berberechos), and she was right.  She told him to soak them for an hour in cold, salted water, and then steam them in nothing but water.  No wine, no spices, no olive oil after cooking.  They were fantastic.  Tiny and sweet and tasting of the sea.

I had been reading Thomas Keller’s cookbook Ad Hoc At Home, a gift from Jody and Matt, and decided it was time we dug deeper into it.  AHAH is Keller’s “casual” cookbook—I put casual in quotes because nothing Keller does is truly casual.  Even the most seemingly simple recipes require absolute precision.  Whenever I cook from this book I have a funny feeling that Keller is looking over my shoulder, scrutinizing my work.  And frowning.  But the thing is, the food is really good.  Top notch.

So we decided to cook a curried cauliflower soup, fried chicken, (which we had made before), and a salad of green beans, walnuts, potatoes, and radishes with a sherry vinaigrette.  But the mushrooms in the market also looked good, and we feared that the season could end any week.  So we made sautéed mushrooms with jamon on toasts with aliolli.  And since we would make potatoes for the kids, why not also make patatas bravas as a starter for the adults?  And because I’d promised the kids we would make cut out cookies, we made some of those as well—Christmas trees with red and green sprinkles.  Oh, and some pecans slow roasted with honey and sea salt, because I always make roasted nuts at this time of year.

All of which meant we had a lot of cooking to do.  After our market dinner, I made most of the soup, the cookie dough, and the nuts.  I turned in early because my throat had begun to feel scratchy, and Alec stayed up until the wee hours cooking carrots for the kids, brining the chicken and cleaning the mushrooms.  After several hours more cooking in the morning—it’s a good thing lunch here means 2 pm—we had a really nice feast.  Given that we did not have a thermometer to gauge the oil temperature, and that Alec did not put the chicken directly into the oil after dredging it, the chicken was not Keller-perfect.  But it was really good.

I also recommend the soup recipe, which you’ll find below. Keller recommends topping it with fried beet chips and homemade croutons, but I served it with just a few chives snipped on top.  I also added quite a bit more curry and salt after it was completely cooked.  I found that with only ¼ teaspoon of curry powder, the flavor was a bit too bland.  For curry, I used half regular and half hot, purchased at Fairway last weekend by Alec.

Cream of Cauliflower Soup (adapted from Thomas Keller)

2 heads cauliflower (4 – 5 pounds total)

4 T. unsalted butter

¾ cup coarsely chopped onion

¾ cup coarsely chopped leeks (white and light green parts)

¼ tsp. yellow curry powder

kosher salt

2 cups milk

2 cups heavy cream

2 cups water

Coarsely chop cauliflower and stems (but not core) into 1 inch pieces.  You need 8 cups.

Melt 3 T. of the butter in a large saucepan over medium heat.  Add the onion, leeks, curry and chopped cauliflower, season with 2 tsp. salt, partially cover, and cook stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are almost tender, about 20 minutes. 

Pour in the milk, cream, and water, increase the heat to medium-high, and bring to a simmer.  Simmer for 30 minutes, skimming off the foam from time to time.

Puree the soup in a blender or food processor (I used a stick blender in the pot, which worked just fine) until smooth and velvety.  Taste for salt and curry and adjust accordingly.

Photos of the Day

Top 4 photos:  Shopping at the market (photo credits John Green); Parc Laberint; berberechos and gambas